


Caress

by therosenpants



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Masterbation, Other, PWP, Phantom Hands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Self-Love, Solo, identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 10:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14235804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therosenpants/pseuds/therosenpants
Summary: After returning to his underground home the first time he let Christine go, he realizes her scent is everywhere—even on his clothes. Her lingering presence may have guided him to the bed, but it his own hands that are his undoing.The Opera Ghost resolves some issues with identity, self-empowerment, and desire.Written for wheel-of-fish's "Phantom Hands" trope. ALW.





	Caress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wheel_of_fish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_of_fish/gifts).



The scent of her still lingered.

She had a rather fragrant perfume that he had inhaled when she had fainted into his arms. That gentle combination of gardenia and clover had rushed at him as swiftly as her hair had fallen across his back, perhaps even goaded by it. And now, it had infused itself into the fibers of where she had slept, into the carpet where she had stepped, and even, most regrettably, into the tapestry of his cloak.

Upon returning to his home he detached the garment from his shoulders and held it before him. The dark expanse of fabric swayed beneath his hands, and he regarded it with a mixture of distaste and longing. His fingers curled at the beading along the neckline. His body leaned in as brought the cloak closer, and even through the obstruction of his mask, he could smell it — the co-mingling of both their charms, his being a mix of dulled anise and bar soap. But hers was the stronger, and with a gasping shudder he swept the black underneath his arm and stretched it across his chest horizontally. He pressed the neck of it against his shoulder and rocked with it as he stepped tentatively toward the bed.

There, he arranged it across an invisible woman whose presence he still felt in the matter of his bones. The length of his body followed his hands, and before he knew it he was curled next to it an awkward, rigid angle. Those hands hovered over the fabric, pausing at the memory of the curves which slept under it, at the rhythm of her breathing and the way she had bit her lip over her dreams. It had been only hours since he'd let her rest, and his muscles still throbbed with longing. A feeling which, in his anxiety and respect for her perfect visage, he'd set aside to battle with internally later.

She had seen how he'd wanted her, no doubt of it. Perhaps she had been too entranced by the dark wonderland to take in too great of detail, but he  _had_ held her many times throughout the night. His body had reacted of its own accord to the nearness of her throat, her panting lips, her dainty wrists. It had vibrated purely with desire. Stiffened when she rolled her head against his waiting arm. Hardened when she'd felt his mask… his mask, which he now touched himself, felt cool even against hot skin. And his skin, his very flesh was intolerable.

Moaning against the brilliant turquoise pillow, his hands found purchase underneath the white porcelain, and he peeled it from his face. Hours ago she'd done a different kind of removal, one of betrayal and fear that had left him iced. But he could not forget that sorrow in her face as she had reached out to him, handing him back the comfort of the mask's delicate caress. Though it was in her hands for the briefest of time, it had been endowed with her scent as she had clutched it to her breast.

That was stale, now. It restricted the full immersion into the memory of her presence, and thus he flung it carefully to the side, where it lightly spun to a stop on the right side of the material. His inhuman flesh, now exposed to the air — and to her perfume — now buried itself into the fabrics which lay before him, all carrying that distinct odor directly into his nostrils. The moan returned, joined by another until his hands seized at the cloak and twisted it against his abdomen. His face, with mouth open, eyes twinkling with hot tears, pressed into the pillow until the sobs were muffled by their softness.

One of his shaking hands began to travel up his chest, while the other still held the cloak fast to his waist. Palm flat against his jacket, his fingers encircled the lapel, then relaxed again. He swallowed. The hand moved again, encircling the opposite shoulder now, where he stroked the spot where his jacket met his shirt. Both hands were rhythmic, playing a dark melody to the low baritone of his distant groans.

He was resting on his knees now, which shook with anticipation. The black cloak, pooling in places but pulled taut in others, was collected under his convulsing limbs. Two hands now rested on the back of his neck, kneading the damp flesh and finding its way underneath the collar, until suddenly his tie was flung from his throat and the shirt unbuttoned to where it met his waistcoat. He dove one hand underneath, massaging the muscle which encased his heart. It was pounding, no  _bursting_  with agony and joy each time its owner turned his head and caught her scent anew in his nostrils. His lips, now dry with panting, were moistened by a reaching tongue.

The pads of his fingers brushed suddenly over his nipple, which caused a tiny current of sparks to travel from it to his navel, and then even further. He repeated the pattern and his toes curled in his shoes. His other hand came to his throat and held there, while he pressed harder and more deliberately into the circular nub.

This caused him to lean back until suddenly he was no longer clenched against the fabric of his bed, but his head dipped back toward the heavens. He felt from his throat a vibration of hollow laughter.  _God,_ he thought, as though the Almighty was one who watched devious acts with interest.  _When was the last time I felt myself like this?_

He realized it was perhaps years, though God need not answer that for him. His body responded to that need for pleasure because a lady who smelled of gardenias and clover had reminded him it existed. He had hardly spent five minutes in his home alone before his hands had found their purpose again, and he had every reason to thank that saintly, untainted little angel he'd restored above.

He thanked her quietly by unbuttoning his waistcoat, then the rest of his shirt, which he then pulled apart to reveal shuddering abdomen. Bare hands met bare flesh. His pinky curled and lingered over the hair which traveled downward to disappear into his trousers. Another ragged, aching breath left his mouth, and he took the cloak again, balling a piece of it in his fist and bringing it to his face where he inhaled. His hand on his belly moved steadily from waist to waist, waist to chest, and finally up again to his neck as he let the cloak fall. Both hands together now, as he rolled his head as hers had across a swath of his arm, until they explored, also together, the journey to his pelvis.

He felt the bones of his hips jutting underneath his pants, and he sucked in a steady breath. Cool hands leaving hot skin, they skirted over the fabric over his legs as another shockwave circulated his veins. They dipped down into dark places, like the knobby knees still pulling the cloak tight underneath, in between the strong thighs which radiated warmth between them… and over the bulging seam of his trousers, which yearned to be released.

Even touching that place lightly had an effect on him. He gave a short sound of high approval and gasping, and before it became too much too quickly he secured one of his hands against the outside of his thigh, as though to steady his own pleasure.  _Yes_ , it had been far too long since he'd done  _this_. Yet while the motions were the same as always, he knew he had been irrevocably changed by the feeling of a woman pressed against that body which now throbbed with desire. He knew, now, an inkling of what it was like to have someone  _else_ discover your allure for you, and that realization made all the difference.

He felt _powerful_ , now. While his face demonstrated untold horrors regularly, he found now that his body could be seductive, even  _desirable_. Though she did not consciously know it, she had indeed responded physically to his advances, though he had been too frightened at the time to follow through. Was it his voice that she wanted to please, or the man behind it? Either way, it had been too great a temptation to act upon, too sacred a rite that he felt he could not practice without her consent.

Still… Even as he desired her, it was an unwieldy solution to desire  _himself._  Her ghost had guided him to this bed with her still strong scent, and yet here were his hands that snapped open the topmost button of his trousers, and then another. Trembling fingers, clumsily pecking at the soft combination of skin and fine hair, suddenly found the fabled creator thrumming with passion underneath thinly drawn veins.

His body tensed as he took himself in his hand, the other shooting downward to grip at the black fabric between his legs. His breathing quickened. Though the fingers which encircled his member had done so before, he took special precautions to unlock the door slowly, always conscious of the bodies that were and weren't there. He recalled the swell of her breast, though it reddened his cheeks to do so. He hadn't meant to look, but his already slick cock was glad that he had.

He ran his thumb against the top of the base, while his other fingers pressed into the pliant flesh which hung tight beneath the stiffened limb proper. Then, he pulled those fingers away from the base, skirting over pulsing veins to the shining pink tip. He was gentle, though his body wanted him to be fierce, to grip it tight and shuck its sickness quickly, to spend it and move on. But he would not yield to that urge tonight as he had in the past. Tonight was to savor the memory of that woman he loved… To  _caress._

The hand which gripped his cloak now slid to the space where his thighs met his buttocks. His fingers stroked the texture there, pressing and kneading as his other hand worked on his cock. His chest curled inward and rocked into the motions of his hands. He groaned with each swipe of his fingers, each new sensation which joined a myriad of others along the circumference of his manhood.

One index finger that touched it roved to the tip, while the others pulled down toward his pelvis. It found the little wedge of flesh underneath the spout, then proceeded to follow the curve of the head around to the other side, which he repeated several times. This motion made him shiver. His other hand gripped the fabric of his trousers, and he heard his fingernails scratching at the weave. The index finger came over the edge of the head and now rubbed it gently, feeling the smooth, wicked flesh as it became wetter with each passing gesture.

Then, just as he was beginning to feel too at ease, he cupped the tip in his hand and dragged it down the length, causing a convulsion which sullied his mouth with an aching expletive. The other hand shot back up and helped its companion, all fingers exploring the tip together in unison. They made another pass over the entire cock, and his nipples hardened again at this new excitement.

Rather than continue to use both hands for the same practice, he put one to a different use again, this time cradling the sack which threatened to spill itself completely. It massaged them each individually, together, and then the loose skin which encased them, all while his other hand gave his member careful, rhythmic strokes with variant tightness.

He used his fingers to play a melody with his body, each pump like the flinging of a bow across strings, each caress against his skin the same he would bestow upon black and white keys. His pale hands peeking from under black sleeves shone brilliantly against his equally dark cloak, and he thought to himself that the art of pleasuring oneself was in itself a kind of talent. A person's body was its own kind of instrument, and he was intent on fully mastering it. After all, how could he please another if he could not please himself?

Underneath that sweaty, intoxicated brow, a smile occurred. It grunted, it licked, it spoke paltry invocations, but it smiled. And then, emboldened by this smile, he stroked harder.

This was it, now. The second hand left its place at the drooping weight and slithered over his chest and belly, slicking it with the pre-cum that had already dripped onto that hand.  _That_ sensation was wonderful, a kind of lubrication of the soul as it slid into the capable hands of his body. The hand around his cock now moved with swift purpose, anxious to feel ephemeral pearls rolling across its fingers. Thumb and forefinger came together around the base, squeezing tightly and pulling upwards so that looser flesh gathered around the tip. He pushed it back again, then forward again, then back…

Suddenly the next time his fingers met the tip it brought back with them an even greater slickness, which facilitated the ease of his pumping. His hips rocked as though they pumped into the folds of a budding flower, and he had to precariously balance himself on the other hand now. That fist clenched the cloak again, with the same intensity that the other stroked his cock. His moaning was wild now.

His wrist had, up till now, been fluid and relaxed so that he would not strain it. Now it locked itself up, his whole arm invested in the same motion as his hand, and this, in turn, shook his body so fervently that the structure underneath also rattled with his pleasure.

The moans stopped suddenly, as making them had also helped him breathe. He no longer breathed, only braced his lungs for what was to come. His eyes wide, his breath halted, his nostrils flared.

A small change to the placement of his pinky is what undid him. He had lifted it ever so slightly so that it was outstretched, and the brushing of his signet ring against the ribbed veins of his member had driven him to a hard convulsion. The breath he had been holding parted from his lips with a strangled cry of a Scandinavian name and his seed shot from his tangled mess of hand and manhood onto the black cloak, spraying so far that its hot liquid coated his other hand. The warmth and aroma of his semen on that hand seized it up, curving its fingers like a spider alerted by the threat of poison. He reached down and helped his other hand divulge the rest, his head coming to collide with the pillow as he stifled a guttural groan.

When he had spent the last of it, his body relaxed and his hands left the softening member to shakingly lift himself up. Then, he rolled himself over so that he would not dirty the rest of his clothes on the soiled cloak.

Those once confident, exuberant hands were left quaking by his side. One of them he wiped on the sheet underneath his frame, then swiped the back of it along his sweaty brown. The skin on both hands was puckered and raw, but this did not necessarily bother him. In fact, the exploration of his body had somehow lifted his spirits, and he continued to smile at the ceiling.

The hand that had wiped his forehead came to rest on the curve of his bare collarbone, while the other held fast at his waist. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, recalling faintly the last thing he had said in the throes of passion. A two syllable name, one he hadn't said in a very,  _very_ long time. He said it again, the back of his throat closing around the sharp, voiceless stop.

His rooms no longer smelled of her. Only the aromas of sex, soap, and anise guided him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This was written for people on tumblr begging wheel-of-fish to write a caresshot because of Phantom Hands. Republished here from fanfiction.net
> 
> REVIEW, says rose
> 
> —therosenpants


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